


The Maneater Contract

by MigrantMayhem



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Mentions of Rape, Monster of the Week, Moral Dilemmas, Slice of Life, Witcher Contracts, generic witcher contract
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:41:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24110725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MigrantMayhem/pseuds/MigrantMayhem
Summary: So I dug this up out of my drive, it's from around 2018 where I had my Witcher phase-- I had just finished the game and of course was fascinated with the world. So I made up a character and wrote out one of her most influencing hunts-- that of the "Maneater."Hope you guys enjoy! Chessa never ended up going much farther than a reference page and this, but if you like it I may try to write more of her misadventures.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 3





	The Maneater Contract

**Author's Note:**

> There are mentions of implied rape and discovering loved ones dead in this fic

The wind was biting, even through the many wool layers Chessa wore beneath her leathers. The snow went above her ankles, and there were some drifts taller than her boots-- leading to her damp socks and icy toes. She grit her teeth to stop them from chattering.

The people in the village of Starkweather were observing Imbaelk-- the end of the winter season. She cursed herself for not waiting until the end of the winter season to commence this hunt. People in the small village were busy congregating around hearthfires, telling stories to young children, consuming all their traditional foods and more than likely getting more than a little tipsy. Meanwhile, the She-Witcher was shivering, sniffling, and swearing to herself as she clomped through the snow. She wasn’t sure why she was suddenly envious of the villagers-- she knew she had no one to spend the holiday with anyway, not anymore. 

Winter was, by far, the worst time of the year to ever go on a hunt. The snow covered any tracks she could follow, and the lack of leaves and the white ground eliminated any chance of hiding. The snow was bright, too; it reflected the slowly setting sun, and had effectively blinded her an hour earlier. The chill slowed her movements-- her extremities were either completely numb, or were burning with the sharp heat of her own blood. Her senses were dulled with her running nose and wind-beaten ears.

She knew that being out here in these conditions would be essentially suicide. A smart witcher would have at least waited until the snow melted to hunt down the beast. But she had never claimed to be intelligent, and her actions were often blurred by her compassion, pride or own self-loathing. 

Maybe she took the contract because of how many families were out, gathered around large bonfires; an attack by the ‘maneater’ would be devastating.

Maybe, she thought, it was because those asses in the inn thought that she was somehow less a witcher because she was a woman, and she’d be damned if she didn’t prove them wrong.

Maybe again, she thought more glumly, she wanted to spend the holiday with her family, as well.

She glowered, forcing the thought from her mind. She didn’t want to think about the face of her brother, as he lay motionless on the cot across from her. She didn’t want to think about that awful color those mutagens turned his skin. She didn’t want to think about how cold his hand was when she grabbed it, desperate for a pulse.

His hand had been as cold as her own were right now, she figured, flexing her numb digits.

The Ealdorman had practically begged her to take out the beast before the winter was over. He wanted it dead before the festival started, in fear that it may attack the village in its bloodlust. She begrudgingly agreed-- he had offered her a large sum of coin for the beast’s death if she returned before the night was out.

If she returned at all, that is.

Another reason the hunt was virtually suicide-- she hadn’t confirmation on what, exactly, the beast was. She hadn’t had the time to stake out the location properly, and the snow covered any and all clues she could have used to identify her target. The villagers had only referred to it as The Maneater, named for the amount of disappearances that it left in its wake. They found a single body, torn to shreds by claws and filled with poison. Chessa could smell the Bohun Upas the minute she stepped into the room, even over the stench of rot and embalming equipment.

Chessa would have been fairly certain it was a Manticore she was dealing with if it hadn't left one survivor. Her name was Anna, she couldn’t have been older than 16, and she told Chessa she had been walking home late one night when the beast attacked. She had been pounced by the beast after she heard the flapping of magnificent wings-- the creature’s massive arm shattering her left radius. She said that all she could see of the maneater was its big, lionlike shoulders and its eerily humanesque face. 

Chessa would have, at that point, prepared for manticores when Anna said that the beast had  _ spoken  _ to her.

“Go very far away from here, little human,” She had quoted with a far-away look in her eye, “Bring none of your males with their steel here, for they will only die in agony.”

Chessa had never heard of a manticore that could speak-- while they were related to the Sphinx, they were not suited for human speech. It wasn’t that they were not intelligent-- no, far the opposite. Manticores were  _ too  _ intelligent; they were known for their sharp, cutting wit and sadistic demeanor. They were arrogant, and rightly so. Most witchers she had heard of struggled to defeat a manticore in a fight.

Manticores, unlike Sphinxes, simply lacked the vocal cords to mimic human speech. And while Chessa longed to believe it was a sphinx that resided around Starkweather, she knew better-- not only were they native to Zerrikania, but they could not produce the venom Manticores had in their scorpion-like tails. Chessa could only write off the warning Anna spoke of as a hazy, pain-fueled misremembering. It was not the first time it had happened to witnesses.

And so Chessa was going to have to go up against what was, with all likelihood, a vicious, playful manticore. The fact that she didn’t know for certain ate at her confidence like a maggot on flesh.

With hastened steps Chessa weaved between the bare trunks of black-brown trees, the sun almost absent from the sky now. The Maneater would appear at any time.

Chessa finally arrived in the small clearing, a large, black hole in the snow denoting the entrance of a cave. She could smell little, but thankfully the trembling of the icy-cold, griffin-head medallion against her breast announced the presence of monsters.

She took a breath, kneeling in the snow, and closed her eyes.

The stars had moved when she next opened her eyes. It was cold-- so, so cold-- now that the sun had disappeared. She felt no more rejuvenated after the bout of meditation, but no less tired. The ground trembled, and Chessa forced herself to her feet. Pins and needles erupted throughout her legs and she swallowed hard to stifle a grunt. She removed her silver sword out of the scabbard on her back with only a hint of fumbling despite her frostbitten digits. She stood straight and tall, wielding her weapon to her side, but tightly.

Out of the darkness came powerful, amber-furred legs, with paws the size of her head, and claws that gleamed like daggers.

Out of the darkness came muscular shoulders, fur rippling like fields of wheat along its lion-like body.

Out of the darkness came a mane, and beneath the mane of dreaded, auburn hair was a face-- human, startlingly human, right down to the calculating, intelligent gleam in the beast’s hazel cat eyes. Wrinkles scoured the face, not horizontal, but vertical; that was the only thing separating the face before her from the face of a woman in her fifties.

Out of the darkness came broad, billowing wings-- and at once Chessa realized that they were not the devilish demon-wings of leather that manticores bear, but these were covered in tawny feathers.

Chessa was facing not a manticore, but a ravenous Sphinx, very far away from Zerrikania, and was left with only her basic knowledge of the creature to defend herself. She ground her teeth, and with a lift of her sword, she sealed her fate.

She shifted her weight, ready to rush the beast. Her heart raced, and she saw the Sphinx’s hackles raise.

But then, the beast’s fur smoothed, and there was no longer that predatory gleam in its eye; it was replaced with one of smug curiosity and careful contemplation.

“I have never smelled a female of your kind, beast-slayer.” The sphinx spoke with the voice of an aged woman, eyes narrowed not in hostility, but in haughtiness-- her head inclined, chin up just enough to appear above the woman-witcher. Not that she needed to: the beast was already four heads above Chessa’s height.

“I’ve never seen a Sphinx this far west,” Chessa stated shortly.

The Sphinx’s brow twitched, before she continued with her previous thought, “You are not helpless and weak like the other females of this village… no. You can defend yourself. That is…” She seemed to roll her next word over on her flat, barbed tongue, teeth glittering for an instant in the moonlight, “...Respectable.”

“One wouldn’t hire a tailor to do a carpenter’s job.”

“So, you are here to do a job then?”

“Sure am.”

“Why…” The Sphinx began to circle away from the cave entrance, “Would you, She-Witcher, work for the same people that hunt you?”

Chessa stepped painfully on her frostbitten feet, keeping her face and front to the Sphinx at all times, watching the powerful, feathered wings for any sudden twitch-- knowing that wings could quickly become a deadly weapon if she wasn’t prepared.

“Because,” She started, her own cat-like eyes bouncing from the wings to the Maneater’s eyes, and then back again, “Just as monsters were bred to kill humans, Witchers are made to kill monsters. It’s the natural order of things.”

The Sphinx’s eyes narrowed to glinting slits, but she did not charge. Indeed, the Sphinx stayed a good thirty paces away, and at once Chessa knew she was as confident of this fight as herself.

The Sphinx was only here to protect something, Chessa recognized, as was she. Neither of them wanted to fight, but felt they had to.

Chessa sniffled, straightening.

“You are in no shape to fight, She-Witcher. Why try?” The Sphinx prodded.

She ground her teeth, her breath turning to fog as she exhaled.

“I need the coin the proof of your death will provide.”

The sphinx seemed to sigh, her hulking body deflating as steam rolled from her nostrils.

“Ah, that’s right. The humans have always put such value on trivialities, and then use such trivialities to barter necessities. It’s silly, when anyone-- especially someone with your skills, She-Witcher-- could simply take it. Why don’t you?” The Sphinx inquired, “Save yourself the pain of death?”

“If I feared death, Sphinx, I wouldn’t have dared step foot in this field. As for the coin…” Chessa narrowed her eyes, “Contrary to popular belief, I have a conscience.”

The Sphinx seemed to concede to her point.

“It appears we are at an impasse.”

“So it does.”

There was a moment between the two, as they both acknowledged what this “impasse” meant for them.

“I will try to make it painless for you, dear.”

“And I, you.”

The Sphinx squatted down, wings fluttering lightly as she prepared to pounce. Chessa clung to her silver sword in both hands-- in fear of her fingers losing their unfeeling grip.

She counted her breaths, could hear her heartbeat in her frozen ears.

_ One-- jackrabbit running through the brush. _

_ Two-- jackrabbits running through the brush. _

_ Three-- jackrabbits running through the brush. _

_ Four-- _

The sphinx’s wings extended, and in a flash, she was on top of her.

Chessa’s breath caught in her throat as she rolled to the side, leaving a trail in the snow, and slashed upwards. The silver blade left nothing but a superficial slice on the beast’s right forearm, but it was a strike nonetheless.

The Sphinx growled, a roar deep and throaty and shockingly animalistic after the brief conversation, before swiping the wounded leg at Chessa. She ducked, but then, out of the corner of her eye she saw one large, powerful wing beat at the ground. Chessa jumped out of the way of the blast, shielding herself with the Quen sign and avoiding the storm of snow that was tossed into the air. She cursed her nose as she sniffled again, bringing her sword into a defensive stance. The Sphinx charged, and Chessa rolled right once again.

However, it seemed the Sphinx had already predicted the move, and this time caught her halfway through the movement. Her shield shattered around her in a faint burst of yellow light, and she was sent sliding on one shoulder, unrolling, finding her back pressed into the snow. Her ears were already ringing.

Her vision blurred with frost-caused tears, and she forced herself to her wobbly, frozen feet. She cursed the world for spinning. She was so damn cold, and now the snow made her coal-colored hair a sopping mess that clung to her scalp.

A string of swears left her as she dove under another sweep of her claws, doing something rather reckless.

Instead of diving back, or to either side, Chessa dove directly beneath the chest of the Sphinx, slicing upward as she went.

She saw a mangey lock of mane drift down behind her, and a few drops of blood stain the snow, but nothing fatal.

What was fatal, however, was Chessa’s new position.

The snow had stopped her directly beneath the now enraged Sphinx, who reared up to squash the relatively-tiny Witcherette beneath her. It didn’t take long for her to pinpoint which of the legs was maintaining the most of the creature’s weight-- the left rear one, it seemed-- and slice a massive gash right above the knee.

The creature yowled and staggered above her, wings flapping, making the air around her even colder. She took the opportunity to roll out from underneath her.

The world spun once again as Chessa righted herself, and she shook her head. There was snow on her eyelashes and she hastily blinked it away, but not soon enough. The Sphinx’s large paw clubbed Chessa across the face. The world fell in and out of focus as the full force of the blow buried her in the snow.

_ At least the bruise won’t swell _ , she thought absently.

She could feel hot blood trickling down her cheek.

The Sphinx’s uneven steps roused Chessa to her senses. She twisted around, but was not fast enough to avoid the blow. Her arms instinctively went up, hands digging at the footpads of the monster’s toes, claws dangerously close to her already-marred face. Her arms strained, but were easily pushed down, the only thing between her fragile chest and the Sphinx’s crushing weight was the length of her forearm.

She sicked in a breath, meeting the Sphinx’s hazel cat-eyes and sent a blast of Aard from her palm. The Sphinx’s foot lifted just long enough for Chessa to roll out of the way, and earned her a surprised gasp from the beast above her.

She stood as fast as she could, blade out, ready to charge the beast straight on, when she heard a soft mewling from the cave entrance.

Her eyes darted for the faintest of seconds away from the predator, and in her peripheral vision she noticed the Sphinx lock up. Sudden panic welled within every fiber of the beast, and Chessa understood why.

There, out of the darkness, stumbled the amber fur of a beast that could not have been much higher than Chessa’s knee. Its face was more youthful, but still had the vertical lines and wrinkles caused by a face that was not on a body nature intended. Its mane was not the same auburn color of the Sphinx before her, but was a bright, vibrant blonde-- still short, curly and clean in its youth.

Its wide, hazel eyes were blurred by tears.

_ Just like her mother’s _ .

The Sphinx growled, backing up to cover the cave entrance-- to defend her young.

Chessa could do nothing but stand in stunned silence as three more cubs peaked their heads out.

She realized that with them came the scent of Bohun Upas, and she could see the glinting of scorpion-tails in the reflecting the light of the snow. She also realized that their wings were not leathery like a manticore’s should be, but covered in downy feathers.

The Sphinx growled again, louder this time, tail thrashing wildly-- nervously.

Chessa did not put much thought into her next actions. She stared, wide-eyed at the distressed cubs, licked away the blood that pooled at the corner of her lip, and let her sword fall into the snow.

There was a long moment where nothing moved, and she could only be aware of the sharp, exhausting cold that ruined her senses.

“What are you doing, She-Witcher?” The Sphinx threatened.

“They hurt your cubs, didn’t they?”

Those cubs were too small to even leave the den yet, but there was a recognizable terror in their eyes at the glint of the sword.

The Sphinx hissed, “I was careless… and they slaughtered him before his brothers and sisters…” Her tone was hard with grief, “A mistake I am not about to repeat.”

“They’re half-breeds…” It made sense now-- a manticore, as soon as it is born, is able to defend itself. The venom it creates is even more potent than adults, in order to kill a father that comes to devour them. That would explain the strength of the smell. The Sphinx must have moved to the colder climate so that the offspring would be better suited for the environment. Chessa felt her throat seize, realizing just how selfless this Sphinx had been. She wasn’t ravenous, she was  _ vengeful _ .

“Yes, She-Witcher…” The Sphinx sighed, “Sphinxes and Manticores can, in fact, copulate, and produce offspring. Most, however, do not-- Manticores are animals, beasts without an understanding of… consent.”

Chessa could hear the growl in her voice as she spoke.

“He took me… by the scruff of the neck, and I could not defeat him. And so, I took his seed. But these-- they are  _ my  _ children. I did not carry them for him.”

There was a tone of defiance in the Sphinx’s voice that swelled within Chessa a newfound, unexpected respect. She swallowed thickly.

“How long until they can move out?”

“Not long now. A week, at the least.”

“Move them now,” Chessa warned, “I’m sure it won’t take long for the village to rally a team of men after they hear that the Witcher-Bitch has failed.”

“I believe you said something about needing the coin awarded for the proof of my death.”

Chessa grit her teeth, holding back curses that followed the thought of her featherweight coin purse.

“I’ll manage.”

The Sphinx exhaled, breath a cloud of fog.

“Take one of my claws. As a trophy.”

Chessa hesitated. Eyeing the Sphinx’s stiff posture, she was as fond of the idea as Chessa was, but was not deceiving.

“I… what?”

The Sphinx straightened a little, chin tilting upwards the barest degree.

“Such an item will make the humans think I am dead, and allow me enough time to get my cubs to new hunting grounds. And then, we’ll be even.”

A logical analysis, Chessa conceded.

“And if you decide to kill me while I’m unarmed?”

“I wouldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” The Sphinx had a playful gleam in her eye, “Contrary to popular belief, I, too, have a conscience.”

The process of removing the claw was not too difficult. Chessa used Axii to make the act just a tad more bearable, but whether it was more for the benefit of the Sphinx or for herself, she didn’t know.

The trek back was just as horrible as the trek there, if not moreso, due to the dropped temperatures and her already freezing body. When she entered the town square, the warmth of the various fires was almost painful.

She had to be a sight-- red in the face, short hair sticking to her head, bleary cat-eyes naturally glaring at everyone who dared look in her direction, and a new, nasty wound running from the bottom of her temple to the corner of her lip. She approached the center table placed for the Ealdorman to sit, causing the graying man to pause in his sip of ale. She glared at him a little longer: for all the pain and conflict she had been through-- still was in from the frost in her veins.

She slammed the bloody claw onto the table before him, never breaking eye contact.

“It’s done. The Maneater is dead.”

For a few seconds it was silent as death, only sounds being the crackling fire and the wind over the thatched rooftops. A tiny part of Chessa was suddenly gripped by anxiety, worried that they may see through her lie, but she shoved it down as deep as it could go. She did not let her expression waver.

In another few heartbeats, there came applause. First, it was one person, and then a group of people, and then half the village, and soon, the entirety of Starkweather was cheering for Chessa of Vorslego, She-Witcher, Slayer of the Maneater.

All Chessa really wanted was a hot meal and a long nap, but she felt a small smile form regardless.

She was whisked away by some fussy, older women-- they cleaned her up, smothered her in blankets, and had her wounds tended to before she could finally throw herself in a bed at the inn.

She could still hear the festivities down below-- laughing, storytelling, merrymaking of all kinds.

And, as she drifted off to sleep, her thoughts turned to the Sphinx. She had never been one for religion, but she found herself whispering a silent prayer to whoever was listening that she did the right thing.

She wasn’t sure if ‘she’ was the Sphinx or herself.


End file.
